


Good Omens Prompt Fills

by OceanTheSoulRebel



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Tags in Individual Chapters, multi-chapter, prompt fills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:20:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22365538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OceanTheSoulRebel/pseuds/OceanTheSoulRebel
Summary: Various "Good Omens" prompt fills and mini-fics, focusing on Aziraphale and Crowley. Individual chapters are tagged!
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	1. Something To Be Grateful For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Warlock, Nanny Ashtoreth, Brother Francis, wine, food, light angst, miscommunication

“Y’know,” Warlock says, around a mouthful of scone, spraying crumbs as he talks, “November’s coming up. Mom says I should write down things I’m thankful for.” 

Brother Francis tilts his head and takes a delicate sip of his tea. “Whyever for, my boy?” 

“On account of it being Thanksgiving and all. Oh no!” Warlock hastily brushes crumbs from the off-white tablecloth and Brother Francis grabs a napkin from somewhere. He watches the Brother blot at the spilled tea with a frown. “Sorry about the tea,” Warlock says meekly. He bites his cheek. “Don’t tell Nanny?” 

“Why—you know, this isn’t a very big spill at all! Nothing to get Nanny involved with, I think,” Brother Francis says, with that big smile. Warlock smiles back, tentative but relieved. “And why would that worry you?” Francis can’t help but ask. “I don’t think she’s particularly scary.”

A sharp knock at the door to Brother Francis’ cabin has them both jumping, rattling the teacups upon their saucers. 

“Nanny!” Warlock cries, and he all but runs to open the door and usher her inside. Despite his earlier trepidation, the boy’s affection for his governess is genuine when it floods the small sitting room. 

“Warlock,” she says, and though her smile is pinched, her words are warm. “It’s time for your lessons.” 

The boy groans, the noise stopping at the particularly hard look slanted his way from behind Nanny Ashtoreth’s dark glasses. “But I hate geography,” Warlock whines. 

“You will do well to know the countries of the world, Warlock,” Nanny says. She wipes an errant crumb from Warlock’s chin with her thumb. “You are a young man of great import, after all.” 

“And how else could you learn of all God’s creatures? There’s so much in the world to love!” Brother Francis says brightly. It only earns him an arched brow from the stern Nanny.

“Come now, Warlock,” she says with brusque finality, holding out her hand. Warlock, to his credit, hurries to straighten up the table, or at least his place setting, before he leaves, his small hand quite comfortable in hers.

* * *

“You know,” Crowley drawls lazily, sketching abstract symbols in the air, “this place always seems… bigger.” 

Aziraphale looks up from his fourth—fifth? Who knows—glass of wine, smiling with flushed cheeks. “Bigger than what, my dear?”

“Than it lookssss.” Crowley hisses on the s, his own wine glass empty for the umpteenth time tonight. “Ssssurprising.” 

Aziraphale nods, pretending he knows what Crowley means, and clears his throat. “You know,” he starts, frowns, trails off. “You know,” he tries again, “Warlock told me a thing today.” 

“A thing?”

“A human thing. He told me his mother—” Aziraphale hiccups, which only makes Crowley smile from across the couch, “—told me his mother told him to write things down.” 

Crowley, intrigued against his better disinterest, leans up from the slouched position he had taken up. “What kind of thingssss?” 

“Thanksgiving things, Warlock said, things to be thankful for.” 

It grows quiet in the cabin, then: 

“What would you write down, angel?” Crowley asks. 

“Why, I— I’d— my books, I daresay,” Aziraphale answers. He ponders the question another moment. “My bookshop. The boy, even, despite the... “ his voice shakes. “Despite everything.” Aziraphale pauses. “And what of you, my dear?” 

Crowley doesn’t answer, only gestures for Aziraphale’s glass. He fills it with careful motions, as if a single spilled drop would hasten Armageddon all the more. His caution is no more when it comes to his own glass, however, and he gets a splash of deep red wine spilled across the rug beneath their feet. Aziraphale pouts and Crowley sighs before miracle-ing it away. 

They’re halfway through their newest glass, Aziraphale making vaguely happy noises, when Crowley speaks again. 

“Thissss,” he says, waving his hand shakily between them. 

Aziraphale nods sagely. “It is a rather good vintage, isn’t it? I should thank you for thinking of it,” he says, soft, and drains his glass before holding it out. “Another?” 

Crowley huffs and opens another bottle. 


	2. First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: first kiss, implied love confessions

“A little more to the right— tilt your chin— just like that, angel. Superb.” 

Crowley takes his palette in hand and blocks Aziraphale in with broad strokes. White, blue, silver, he works and ignores the paint that clings to his hand already. 

“When did you learn to do this?” Aziraphale eventually asks, soft, sometime after the third paint water refresh. His eyes crinkle and his arms shift, leaning forward. Crowley looks up from the canvas, distinctly unimpressed. 

“Angel,” he chides lightly. Crowley smiles when Aziraphale laughs but follows the unspoken demand, composing himself back into the original position. “You know, I can feel it when you do that.” 

“Do what?” 

“ _Love_ at me,” Crowley murmurs. “It’s like… a physical force. Pushing me. Something tangible.” 

“Oh.” The word is hushed, a punched out little sound. Crowley doesn’t bother to chide him again but only takes his brush and captures the little moue of Aziraphale’s mouth, the way his brow furrows over bright blue eyes.

“You can feel it?” Aziraphale asks. He leans forward from the sofa, arms flexing across the back cushions. His fingers curl into the upholstery. 

It’s still new, this... thing between them. The Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t isn’t yet a month past; they still haven’t kissed, for Someone’s sake, Crowley thinks to himself crossly— not that he’s thought of it, not that he’s wondered if that would be part of their New Arrangement. 

If it could. 

“I… yes,” Crowley says. It’s the truth. Demons can sense it, a leftover from their earlier angelic days. The love that emanates from Aziraphale is as gentle as a lazy river’s current, soft and slow. It’s the same for a nice glass of wine, or a hot cup of tea. It spikes at the mention of cocoa and crepes, and a particularly delicate old book, one from his hidden wish list, will prompt a tidal wave of love that reminds Crowley of the waters of Creation, in the cockles of his cockles. 

“You can feel it, though,” Aziraphale stresses. “Love.” 

“Yes, yes, I—” 

Crowley looks up from the canvas at the storm that threatens to topple his easel. 

“My dear.” Aziraphale rises from the sofa, his eyes never straying from Crowley’s face. “My dear, Crowley.” 

Crowley sputters a hiss. “You—you ssshould sssit.” He gestures to the portrait in progress. “The paint...” 

Aziraphale skirts the easel to stand at Crowley’s side. “The paint can wait,” he declares softly. His hand rises to flutter over Crowley’s sharp shoulder, landing delicately there. Crowley can only stare at that hand. 

“My friend,” Aziraphale breathes. It’s enough to convince Crowley’s gaze upward, staring at him through dark glasses. Aziraphale smiles gently and brings his hand up to brush tentatively at a lock of auburn hair at Crowley’s temple. “May I?” he asks with a light tap to the arm of Crowley’s glasses. 

Crowley’s throat clicks with the force of his swallow, but he doesn’t make a sound, only nodding his assent. 

He watches, rapt, as Aziraphale carefully extracts his dark glasses from his face with both hands, folds them neatly, and places them on the nearby coffee table. Aziraphale turns back, his eyes soft and brightly burning in his radiant face. 

“My dear.” The storm only grows. Aziraphale’s hands rise to cradle Crowley’s cheeks, thumbs brushing over skin flushed a bold, carmine red. “May I?” he asks again. 

Crowley nods, but Aziraphale tuts. “Please,” he murmurs, tinged with something unsure, something tremulous. “I’d… I’d like to hear it, if you—”

“Yesss, yesss,” Crowley hisses. He shoots up from his seat, knocking the stool over entirely, and towers over Aziraphale, his own hands rising to clutch at Aziraphale’s shoulders. 

When Aziraphale tilts Crowley’s head down to meet him and presses their mouths together, it’s like passing into the eye of a hurricane. Relative calm, right where they are, almost normal, but the outside edges of his consciousness blur with the force of the love that buffets against him. 

He whimpers and pulls Aziraphale closer, chasing that stillness. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. I invite and appreciate feedback, including:
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